Runnalon
by JCJules
Summary: The story of a fierce, powerful otter from the northlands, his archer companion, and a mysterious band of vermin. A must-read for otter lovers.
1. Runnalon

Silence. There is nothing to disturb the stillness of the predawn chill at Camp Willow, place of the warrior otters. As the steely gray of the cloud- swollen night gives way to the daylight hours, there is only the gradual lightening from the few sunrays that pierce through the stormy sky and reflect the radiance of the new snow: whiteness building subtly upon whiteness. Not a living creature is in sight, for the cunningly disguised otter dwellings are invisible to all but the legendary residents of Camp Willow. Nary a breeze stirs the skeletal trees, trapped beneath a curtain of impenetrable frost. Winter's icy grip is upon the land; no resistance to its imminently hostile takeover is visible. But there is one left to oppose its seemingly endless death grip. Swiftly, noiselessly, pawprints appear in the snow. Yet there is no evidence of the creature that formed them. Still shrouded in silence, the invisible wraith continues its lone quest. At the edge of the river, the tracks abruptly deepen and then vanish completely. The phantom has submerged itself, though not a ripple stirs the speedily flowing surface of the water. Moments later, the apparition is revealed to be a young male otter, streaking upstream against the current like a torpedo, his movements natural and sure. Despite the fierce and deadly cold, the River Moss has not frozen over. But nobeast else will he encounter this morn. He is the only otter with the fierce confidence and skill to brave the river after the winter's first storm. He continues his solitary trek upriver for miles, never showing any signs of fatigue. At long last his sleek head breaks the surface. His sharp eyes, surpassing those of even the soaring eagle, take in the whitened woodland around him. Dawn has broken fully over the river and surrounding country, but still not a sound can be heard. With a single powerful lunge of his back paws and shoulders, he bounds from the water and lands to stand silently on the bank, the agile manifestation of stealth and competent strength. A rare sight among otters is he. The fur on his body a white so pure that it makes the newly fallen snow seem gray and squalid in comparison. The seamless white is only broken by a single diamond-shaped patch of black between his eyes, deeper than the midnights of the harsh, unforgiving northlands from which he came. And his eyes: so different from the kindly browns of so many of his fellow otters. Eyes of a dark emerald green, blazing with fierce, indomitable independence, piercingly intelligent. 17 seasons of suffering have not managed to dull the light that burns steadily in his eyes. He is young, but fully grown. Though not as tall as many of his comrades in arms, he is lithe and sinewy. There is not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his muscular body. He is clad only in a short barkcloth kilt, belted by silver-riveted black leather. Now, dripping wet, the water outlines his powerful limbs and glints off of his razor sharp claws and bared teeth. He carries no weapons. A born hunter, he needs nothing save his own body's savage efficiency. There is a taut ease about him, relaxed yet tense, like a coiled steel spring. As he begins to walk, his noiseless, rolling gait is almost catlike in its stealthy unity. Without a sound, he quickens his pace to a fast lope: the run of one whose confidence is strengthened by the knowledge of his inexhaustible endurance. It is this run that named him, for sure and strong though he is in the water, his unparalleled speed, stamina, and stealth on land earned him his title: Runnalon Ghostpaw. A name as swift and deadly as its bearer. A name that embodies fleetness of paw, power, agility, and intensity. A name that is already feared throughout the harsh northlands and the equally cruel vermin hordes that ravage them. 


	2. Ash and Skip

This one is a bit longer, and I've also divided it into sections so that it's easier to read, as one of my reviewers suggested. Anyway, enjoy! And if you do, review!  
  
-Jules  
  
Runnalon sped toward Camp Willow, vaulting effortlessly over the low barrier that separated the western fringe of the otter stronghold from the pervading vastness of Mossflower Wood. Breathing lightly, he crested the hill and paused, gazing down the steep slope upon the seemingly haphazard assortment of now snow-covered mounds. Baring his fangs into a grin of anticipation, he sprinted a few taillengths and then threw himself forward, sliding down the hill on his stomach, traversing the seamless ocean of white like an arrow from a bow, invisible against the newly fallen powder. Gathering speed, he veered off to the left, using his thick, streamlined tail as a rudder until he was headed straight for the largest of the mounds. In the instant before collision, he ducked his head slightly and shot down the concealed tunnel entrance into the mess hall of Camp Willow.  
  
Runnalon emerged from the tunnel in a controlled skid and bounded up, shaking the snow from his sleek, muscular body in one smooth motion. He threaded his way through the crowd, his pure white fur distinguishing him starkly from his fellow crew members. He was greeted enthusiastically by many, for his skill in combat and the sure, confident demeanor asserted in his blazing eyes set him apart as a warrior to admire. He responded tersely, with respect devoid of affection. Runnalon's attention went out to only one among the multitudes of otter troops: a young male by the name of Ashdark Trueflight.  
  
He too stood out from the throng, with fur so deeply brown it was almost black, completed by eyes of a dark, steely gray. It was for these unusual features that he was named. Born of healer parents devoted to peace, Ashdark nonetheless became fascinated by the art of war at a young age. Cast out by his kin, Ashdark wandered to Camp Willow, where he became Skipper's protégé and Runnalon's only friend. Said to be descended from the legendary Inbar Trueflight of Ruddaring, Ashdark was the most deadly archer in Mossflower, surpassing the accuracy of even the squirrels with his longbow and black-feathered arrows. Standing half a head taller than Runnalon, he carried his lean frame with a loose, easy grace and had a reputation for being a joker. But behind those laughing gray eyes, Ashdark Trueflight carried cold death in his capable paws.  
  
It was he with whom Runnalon now conversed. Ashdark elbowed his friend in the ribs and commented, "lovely morning." "Aye, good for a bit of a run." Runnalon spoke with a broad northland accent that he could barely conceal. "A bit of a run?" Ashdark inquired incredulously, raising his eyebrows until his face was wreathed in an expression of amused disbelief. Ashdark continued, "when you say a bit, mate, you mean a trek that would have the rest of us crawling by midway." Runnalon shrugged. "Even so," the irrepressible Ashdark went on, the beginnings of a mischievous grin playing across the corners of his mouth, "you have your fun. But next time, mate, warn the kits first, so that they don't fall into the trench that the biggest dibbun of them all made when he went sliding down the hill this morning!" Runnalon gave Ashdark a playful shove that nearly sent him sprawling. "Ah, gerrout of it, Ash, and tell me where Skip is," Runnalon growled in a mock-stern voice. Ashdark winced and staggered dramatically, finally pointing to the corner of the hall. Runnalon gave a single short, barking laugh and bounded over the serving table in the direction his friend had indicated, snatching an oatscone laden with raspberry preserve and meadowcream as he went.  
  
Licking crumbs from his whiskers, Runnalon stiffened into an immaculate salute when he came into the presence of the brawny otter leader. Skipper, however, seemed distracted, only waving a big, tattooed paw to acknowledge the wraithlike warrior's presence. His only words were "Runn. Patrol duty. Make a wide sweep to the nor'east. Funny tracks thereabouts. Doesn't feel right." Runnalon responded with a terse "Aye, sir," saluted again, turned sharply on his heel, and strode rapidly from the room, noting well the fitfully gusting winds and swirling snowflakes upon his emergence to the wintry outdoors. 


	3. Wounded Warriors

CHAPTER 3

A/N: This chapter is a bit longer seeing as I've got a good bit more time on my hands these days…thing Driver's ED. Heh. Also some angst which might cause the rating to be changed. And for those of you who are more closed minded, this is not slash, in other words, it's not romantic relations between two males. My two O.C.s are…shall we say…very close friends. But it's not slash. Ashdark's POV marked by italics, switches between memory and present marked by dashed lines. 

Disclaimer: (better late than never) Mossflower Wood does not belong to me, nor does the River Moss, Camp Willow, or the concept of a Skipper of Otters, and Inbar Trueflight and the Taggerung aren't my characters.. However, Runnalon Ghostpaw and Ashdark Trueflight belong to me. I have no problem with people using them so long as they clear it with me first.

Without further ado…

Blurs, shapes, light, warmth, and pain…pain. The haunting darkness of unconsciousness resolved itself gradually into flickering flame shadows as Runnalon's eyes slowly opened beneath his fevered brow. He stifled a moan as the throbbing pain in the right side of his forehead sharpened into a white-hot intensity that was almost tangible. He winced as, raising a bruised paw, he touched the matted fur just below his ear gently. His hooded eyes, clouded with suffering, were shocked to take in the blood that dyed the snow still burning between the pads of his paw a light rose. The moan rose sharply in his throat, becoming a growl and then a snarl as his shell-shocked mind latched itself onto a single memory: blood. Blood, warm and damp, trickling before his emerald eyes, a flash of shining metal and coils of sinuous muscle…the last things he saw before the darkness enveloped him. Thrashing against the blankets that now sheltered his wounded body, Runnalon desperately fought the memory until, at least, he lay silent once more. 

Dark-gray eyes, burning black in the shadows near the hearth impassively watched the white northlands otter writhing like a streak of light against the dark bedclothes. But behind his impeccable emotionless warriors façade, Ashdark Trueflight ached to see his best friend, he who was like an extension of Ashdark himself, in such agony. Sighing wearily, he sat near the fire and began to clean the snow and blood from his own big, dark-furred, capable paws. Staring into the flames, Ashdark's thoughts swirled like the silently conquering snowflakes that even now trapped the two otters. He shivered and closed his eyes as recollection overwhelmed him.

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Ashdark's eyes had lingered on Runnalon as he'd left the messhall. After all, how could the dark-eyed warrior have missed Skipper's distracted anxiety as he assigned what should have been no more than a routine patrol duty? Runnalon had swept from the hall with all of his usual confident grace, but Ashdark's mind raced, worry rising in his lean frame like steam from a cauldron. Runnalon…winter's first storm…lone patrol duty…funny tracks…suddenly Ashdark boiled over, bounding from his chair and sprinting from the room. The feeling of dark premonition that drove his footpaws swiftly onward did not ease until the big otter had clambered up the tunnel and raced across the new snow to the armory. Sending the hardwood door slamming against the stone wall with a single powerful shove from his dark-furred paw, Ash lunged for his longbow. Running a paw fondly over the smooth, dark, perfectly curved wood and taut, well waxed string, his expression set into capable determination. Runnalon! Ashdark shouldered his bow and quiver, crossing the bowstring and quiver strap across his chest, and at the last second before leaving the armory, snatched a dagger from a high shelf, twirled it once in his paw, and thrust it into his belt sheath. *Semper paratus. His resolve still fresh in his mind, Ashdark set off into the storm. 

Breathing lightly, Ashdark dropped down into the snow, wriggling himself into a protective trench. Brushing an impatient paw against the ice crystals that the biting winds had driven to cling to his dark fur, Ash levered himself up on his paws and peered into the swirling snow. His steel-gray archer's eyes had easily picked up the tracks of his friend, and he had doggedly followed them to the edge of this forest clearing, still and silent but for the distant sounds of combat. He had paused to regroup and plan his strategy…Ashdark shook himself. What was he doing burrowing into the snow when Runnalon was in danger? A cloud of vapor from his breath was all that remained of Ash as he crashed frantically through the undergrowth, stringing his bow and drawing an arrow from his quiver as he ran.

In his haste, Ashdark's first black-feathered shaft went wide and only wounded one of the strange gray vermin that surrounded Runnalon. But his companion did not appear to need much assistance; whirling the sapphire-hilted ice-keen dagger that had once belonged to the legendary Taggerung, Runnalon cut down the strange, scruffy, soot-colored beasts with swift and deadly accuracy. Ashdark fired arrows rapidly into the throng, thinning enemy ranks drastically. As Runnalon noticed one of the creatures attacking him falling slain as though by magic, his eyes flashed an evergreen smile at the dark figure firing the taut longbow. Ashdark returned the glance and chanced a quick laugh; the battle seemed won. Allowing his bowstring to slacken off, Ash paused to watch his friend dispatch the rest of the vermin. A simple task, until…

Ashdark's limbs turned to ice as a specter out of a nightmare made his blood run cold. Out of the storm had come a creature the like of which had never been seen in Mossflower: a huge white and yellow patterned serpent, red eyes glittering, blackened fangs dripping, open mouth emitting a sibilant hiss. Skipper's "funny tracks" were immediately explained as, hypnotized by fear and revulsion, Ashdark watched the monster slither forward, its slimy bulk leaving S-shaped trenches in the deep snow as it bore down on Runnalon. Seeing their leader seemed to drive the bizarre grey vermin into a frenzy; Runnalon was hard pressed and quickly began fighting for his life, sustaining multiple wounds from the short spears they carried. Ashdark moved as though through thick syrup, his normally agile paws stumbling over nothing at all. He had seen the snake rear and prepare to strike…Runnalon…no…but it was too late. The foul serpent's head snapped towards Runn with lightning speed and the muscular coils tightened around his body as the fangs made contact with his forehead. With a bellow like a wounded bull, Ashdark came out of his stupor as the ghost-like warrior collapsed, staining the pure snow with his blood. Rage blinded the brawny otter. Streaking as rapidly as flame across the clearing, Ashdark thrust a paw into his belt, wrenching the dagger free. Still cannoning forward without pausing to aim, Ashdark whipped his paw forward, sending the dagger spinning into the wintry air. The silent missile buried itself in the roof of the serpent's still open mouth. With a sputtering hiss of shocked pain, the snake turned upon the dark warrior. But Ashdark was off, having hoisted his fallen friend into his paws and sprinted off to the west without slackening his pace.

Fighting the urge to cry out, Ashdark drove his body onward, refusing to slow down and further betray his friend. He fought the images of Runnalon, falling and Runnalon, bleeding that threatened to overtake his mind. The frenzied yowling of the scruffy vermin rang in his ears as they flocked about their fallen leader. Smiling grimly, Ash forced all of his remaining energy into his aching paws and tightened his grip on Runnalon's limp body, slightly relieved but not placated by the warmth and pulse that indicated the tough warrior's ongoing vitality. _Not much further now…_Ashdark bit his lip until blood showed as pain and exhaustion began to make his muscles burn. _Just got to keep going…_with his last vestige of strength, Ash raised his head and glimpsed his destination. Slowing to a stumbling walk, Ashdark carried Runnalon into the entrance to a cave, hidden amidst a stand of pines.

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Shuddering involuntarily, Ashdark snapped his molten-silver eyes open and cradled his head in his paws. With a sigh, he rose and glided silently to the pallet on which his friend lay breathing harshly. Pausing inches from the unconscious otter's still form, Ash surveyed the white-furred warrior as his mind raced.

_He looks so peaceful now…no thanks to me. Remember? That snake…and I just stood and watched him fall._

Running the back of one swollen paw gently across the left side of Runn's brow, snow-white and unmarred by dried blood, tears filled Ashdark's eyes.

_Runnalon…I don't deserve you. Here you lie, wavering between life and death, drifting toward Dark Forest's gates. And why? Because your "friend" glued his paws to the snow while anybeast's worst nightmare cut you down. No, I don't deserve you…but where would I be without you? Who else but you could save an outcast otterkit from drowning in his sorrows with your steady eyes and shy smile? Who else but you could soothe a rebellious young warrior's temper with your calm voice and strong, stable paws? Who else but you could light up even the darkest night with nothing but quiet laughter? Who else but you could hold off a vermin regiment, single-pawed, and still have time to look up at me and grin? Runnalon, I don't deserve you. But I need you…so…much…And look what I've done to you…Runn.._

Ashdark collapsed onto his knees and rested his head on his injured friend's muscular chest, sobbing brokenly. Slowly, Ash's breathing calmed, weariness casting its spell over the anguished otter.

Ashdark's warm weight on his torso gradually brought Runnalon down from the world of dreams. His eyes flickered and opened slowly, taking in the lines of exhaustion and worry as well as the tears that streaked his friend's normally handsome face. Anxiety and concern shone through Runnalon's tired green eyes, and he ran a soothing paw over the dark fur on Ashdark's head, continuing down over his neck and onto one tense shoulder. Runnalon's dry lips formed Ashdark's name and then closed as sleep claimed the wounded fighter once more. The two otters slumbered on, lost in friendship and pain as night fell over the forest.

*Semper paratus – "always prepared" in Latin


	4. Pawprints and Plans

A/N: I know it's been a while since I updated, I wonder if any of the few people who once followed this fic are still around. If so, sorry I disappeared? But here, at long last, is Chapter 4, and though it rambles a good bit and doesn't really go anywhere, Chapter 5 will be up within 48 hours...and it actually contains plot! Anyway, happy reviewi...er, I mean, reading.

Ashdark yawned and stretched, blinking sleep from his gray eyes and restoring movement to stiff paws. He looked around the cave curiously. He had only remembered the place from days long past, when he had fled to anyplace he could when the expectations his parents placed on the rebellious young warrior became too much, when their arguments over his future wounded his ears and dragged him from slumber. This cave had always been his favorite hideaway...quiet, dark, private, and, with the help of a cloak and a small fire, surprisingly warm and comfortable. It was well hidden and sheltered by the fragrant stand of pines just outside the entrance. And the proximity of the trees on the northern fringe of Mossflower Wood and a small stream that flowed from the River Moss made food and firewood easy to come by. Yes, he had been right to bring Runnalon here. It was safe...

Ash's eyes strayed to a snug corner consumed by semi-darkness. The stone was worn smooth by the frequent presence of a young back, and the ceiling was blackened by the soot of fires long since extinguished. Out of the stone seemed to fade the image of a small otter with dark, sable fur, huddled into a ball with his head buried in his paws, his little back shaking as he fought back tears of loneliness and fear. How lost he had been then. When had Runnalon found him? Ashdark closed his eyes and shook his head. Enough. The dibbun seeking solace had become a scout seeking battle, but the drive to wander when trouble struck had never left Ash. Suddenly the cave seemed much to small; the once secure walls were closing in. He turned instinctively toward the watery wintry sunlight that trickled in through the distant entrance. Food. That was it. Runnalon would be hungry when he awoke. Food and water would do his injured friend good, and Ashdark needed the air. Ash eyed Runn's prone form warily. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he appeared to be sleeping deeply.

Ashdark scrubbed a paw in the long-abandoned pile of charcoal in the corner until his paw was completely blackened. Finding a slab of pale-colored stone on the cave floor, he scrawled a hasty message: "Gone for suppliz." Beneath, he drew an arrow pointing east, the direction he would take, and a messy sketch of the setting sun, indicating when he would return. He thwacked his paw decisively on the floor, signing the note with its dark print. He wanted his wounded companion to have no doubts of his whereabouts or intentions should Runn regain consciousness in his absence.

Ashdark straightened his posture purposefully and strode out of the cave into the snow, slinging his bow and quiver over one shoulder as he went. Raising a paw to his eyes to shield himself from the glare of the morning son, he wondered if maybe it would have been wiser to wait until nightfall. Unlike Runnalon, the archer didn't exactly blend in. It wasn't that he felt threatened; Ash was far too aware of his own abilities for that. But he wanted to keep a low profile. No sense bringing an ambush down on the cave while Runn was sick, he thought to himself. So he ducked and weaved behind the evergreens, taking care not to be seen by anybeast as he threaded his way to the small stream adjacent to the cave.

Ash sighed in contentment at the sound of running water. Humming softly to himself, he set about whittling a temporary fishing rod from a thin pine bough, stringing and baiting it with twine, a hook, and dried shrimp from his belt pouch. He ventured out onto the ice of the partially frozen rivulet and dropped his line into a small, becalmed hole in the ice. He propped the branch against his footpaws and sat down cautiously, nocking an arrow to his bow and glancing over his shoulder to ensure his solitude. But he soon felt his vigilance sliding away into a vague, impersonal unease as he drank in the crisp winter air, laden with the heavy, dark scent of pine. Ash dangled on eof his footpaws in the rapidly flowing streamwater, but soon fell to shivering; he was essentially a creature of southern Mossflower in summer and had never understood the energy that Runn seemed to draw from cavorting about the frozen landscape. He drew his legs up to his chest and huddled into a tight crouch. His thoughts wandered back to his companion from the Northlands.

He winced slightly in recollection of the guilt that had besieged him the night before. He frowned. Why had he been so miserable? After all, would Runnalon be lying snug and warm in a hidden cave awaiting victuals and treatment if not for Ashdark's quick thinking and brave action? But then, Ash muttered to himself, he wouldn't _need _treatment in the first place if I'd acted sooner. He kicked irately at some loose snow on the bank; so much for relaxation, he thought bitterly. Why do I still feel guilty? He fidgeted restlessly. Ash was a creature of action; he could hardly stand to sit still and argue with himself when there was no resolution in sight. What to do?

"I'll just have to make it up to him, that's all," he said aloud, and sprang up. Even if he hadn't been the one to prevent Runnalon's injury, he could at least be the one to prevent the other from suffering any during his recovery by making sure he was never wanting for food, water, warmth, shelter, or company. That much, Ashdark thought, I _can_ do.

His stomach growled. He shrugged one shoulder and figured food was as good a goal as any. He glanced over at his fishing line, which hadn't moved. Not wanting to be idle, he left his fishing equipment behind and strode jauntily off into the trees, slashing low-hanging boughs from the pines and stowing them in his nearly empty quiver for firewood as he went. It wasn't long before he realized that his foraging was going to be of no avail; greens weren't exactly flourishing in the middle of winter. Ash made a face at the silent evergreens; unless they wanted to eat pine needles, he needed a better plan. He knew that he was miles from Camp Willow, Redwall, or any other civilized outpost that could provide him with supplies, and whatever he could catch from the river wouldn't be enough. He racked his memory to try and recall what, if any, friendly living creatures they had encountered since leaving home. All he could think of was the mob of the great serpent's scruffy gray followers. "It's not as if those blighters'd help me," he growled quietly. Unless...

Ashdark's mind worked rapidly. There had to have been at least threescore of the strange beasts that had attacked Runn, and that was probably only a combination of a few routine patrol groups that had been summoned to dispatch the intruder. There had to be more under the serpent's command. "Probly 'undreds of the buggers," Ash breathed, his eyes widening slightly at the thought. He regained composure rapidly. "So much the better for me. An army marches on its stomach, ey? An army that big has to have loads o'vittles stashed away someplace." He bared his teeth into a slightly maniacal grin as he turned to face the direction from which he and Runn had fled earlier. "An' it ain't fair for those fuzzy little villains to be stuffing their ugly mugs when a couple of otter warriors is 'ungry," he laughed to himself. He set off into the gathering sunlight.


End file.
